I know all of this is backwards, starting with trying to impress them and outdo their dad, but Nate is tough competition. He takes them for chocolate-chip pancakes in the morning, whipped cream on top, and hot chocolate, whipped cream as well, and off to the store for a just-because toy, followed by McDonald’s Happy Meals at lunch, and Cici’s pizza buffet for dinner. I’m not sure how a GI surgeon justifies feeding his own kids a highly processed diet, but there it is.
He is a bag of air-spun, melt-on-their-tongues, blue and pink cotton candy. I am bitter broccoli and peas. Nate wants them to be happy right now. I am trying to protect their future. He wants them to smile and giggle. I want them to avoid heart disease and diabetic amputations. He gives piggyback rides and throws them in the air. I give them haircuts and baths. Being with Nate is like being in Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Being with me is occasionally like being in China, working in a shoe factory.
I should want to savor every moment with them before Nate whisks them away in the morning, but on this Cherish Night I am preoccupied.
You need to be careful. Careful as a criminal.
I let them watch a movie with no moral message while I bleach every square inch of my bathroom. I let them eat Pop-Tarts for dinner while I rewash my laundry. I put them to bed without baths or teeth-brushing while I check my face, neck, and hands for small cuts or slivers of Leland’s splintered bones. I find nothing definitive; I have small nicks in my skin everywhere, at any given time. I don’t read a single book. I don’t do or say anything to make them feel special, let alone cherished.
When they are snoring softly in their rooms, I sneak out of the house and run one mile. The night air is warm and humid and smells like rain. I shower and, with wet hair, lie naked in my bed and close my eyes.
I’ve left his sliding door open and dropped slimy, week-old pieces of chicken on the floor inside his door.
Walking in darkness and rain, I zigzag up and down the roads west of my house, walking on the street. I’m taking a long route home, meandering away from his house and circling back to mine.
I stop beside a plastic grocery bag trapped under a rock. I take a pair of flip-flops that are three sizes too large for me and several black garbage bags out of the grocery bag. Peel off my extra layer of clothes and my too-large sneakers. I stuff all of it into one of the garbage bags, then slip my cold, pruney feet into the flip-flops.
As I lift the lid of someone’s garbage bin, the odor of rotting meat wafts out. I gag, briefly. I toss one of my bags in and walk fifteen houses. Wiser this time, I hold my breath before I open the lid of another garbage bin. In goes another bag. This one has my father’s wooden-handled hammer.
I expect one or two passing vehicles, headlights cutting through mist. I don’t encounter a single car or person.
I open my eyes and stare at my bedroom ceiling. I don’t want to relive Garbage Night.
Keep your eyes open all night if you have to.
Thunder wakes Chloe at 1am. When she cries, I jump out of bed swiftly because I haven’t fallen asleep yet. Cold and naked, I pull on yoga pants and a T-shirt and socks. I gracefully sweep her limp, sleep-warm body into my arms and tell her the rain is giving the trees a drink. They are happy because they were thirsty. And, doesn’t the rain sound like beautiful music? Doesn’t the thunder sound like the squirrels are juggling nuts?
She says nothing and easily falls back asleep.
Chloe wakes again at 2:30am. I go to her promptly, hyper-awake and jittery, because I was falling asleep when the thunder woke me too.
“I hear monsters, Momma.” Sitting in her bed, her lids blink slowly, heavily.
“It’s the thunder, baby. It’s raining. Remember, the trees were thirsty and now they’re so happy.”
We go back and forth about monsters and rain for a few minutes before she lies her head down on her pillow and closes her eyes.
The night is getting away from me. I am running out of time to sleep. I read for a half hour and drift off.
Chloe wakes me at 4:30am. She is screaming.
I fight through a wave of deep, heavy, limb-paralyzing sleep. I emerge from it, groggy and not in control of my body. Heavy pressure in my belly urges me to the bathroom even as she’s crying and yelling. I trip on the floor and bang my elbow into the doorframe. I maneuver the hallway and kids’ bathroom in the dark and I’m a foot away from the toilet when my sock lands in a cold puddle. Gooseflesh pops along my neck and arms. I detest wet socks. And, no one even took a bath. Why is the floor wet?
Chloe is yelling for me.
You never let me sleep.
I lower my ass onto the toilet, but the toilet seat my ass was expecting never meets me. I fall in. Cold toilet water washes over the region of my body I work so hard to protect from filth.
Fury clenches my insides. Violence hums like static electricity along my skin. My hands ball into hard fists. Under my breath, “Motherfuckers.”
“Momma! Momma! Where are you?”
I hold my pee, pull my yoga pants up over my wet ass, and stumble into Chloe’s room. I step on what is undoubtedly a Lego and feel the soft skin of my foot split open. Motherfuckers.
I am a tightly coiled spring, ready to brusquely unfurl.
“Momma, I was calling you. Where were you?”
My chest tight, my skin hot, my pulse thumping hard and fast, my bladder pressing, I reach down for her. I pull her into my arms and press her moist cheek to mine. Through clenched teeth, I say, “I’m sorry, baby. I was in the bathroom.”
“Is the thunder going to get me?”
“No. You’re OK, baby. You can sleep in my bed.” I carry her into my bed and lay her head on my pillow and tuck my down-alternative comforter under her chin. “I have to take a quick shower because I got dirty, but I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t leave me.”
“I’m not leaving. I have to pee and take a quick shower. It will only take a minute.”
“OK. I’ll wait for you.”
Warm shower water pelts my skin, uncoiling my muscles, dissolving my fury. Tinged pink from my bleeding foot, water pools at my feet.
My behavior, my anger, is dependent on frivolous variables. How much sleep did I get? During what stage of sleep am I interrupted? Are my socks wet? Does my foot ache? Is my pussy wet with toilet piss-water?
They say your true character reveals itself during hardship, which worries me. When the going gets tough, I tend to morph into a raging monster.
I walk naked, skin moist, cold and goose-bumped, into my room. Chloe sleeps, her lips like ribbons, her cheeks full and tender, her hair feathery upon my pillow, her small body cradled by the cushiony hills of my bedspread. I watch her chest rise and fall, over and over, while I drip water onto the wood floor.
43
SOME SORT OF EXPLOSIVE DEVICE
Today I am going to get shit done. Today I am going to pretend I can Start Over. Today I will pretend there has never been a murder on my street. Today I will pretend my hammer is not missing. Today I will pretend I’ve never met the Boones, and I’ve never heard of their daughter. Today I will pretend I have nothing to hide.
I am putting last night behind me. I don’t even mention the toilet seat to Wyatt. I smile a lot. Fake it till you make it.
Nate whisks the kids away at 8am. Not a word about yesterday’s conversation at Burger King. I’m going to pretend that never happened either. I’m giving my mind the Day Off.
My ADD medication takes the reins. I boost the effect with a strong cup of tea and I am buzzing. I scrape forgotten, faded stickers off the kitchen floor with a knife while I sing “All Star” by Smash Mouth.
By 11:30am the dishes are clean, the kitchen sink is scoured, the toilets are disinfected, the floors are washed, and the kids’ clothes are clean and tossed, unfolded, into their drawers.
I make myself eggs and toast and a second cup of tea. I text my realtor.
-Please disregard my previous voice mail, Jane. We are staying. Thanks
!
With Hulk curled at my feet, I pay bills as I eat breakfast. After the fat cats get paid, I walk outside.
The outside of my house is like a scrotum housing two testicles, meaning, my mind considers it the male domain, not fully knowable and involving an array of equipment and procedures that will never feel natural to me.
It is knowable. I walk around the house, making a mental list of chores.
Grass is getting long, luring ticks and mosquitoes to the party in my backyard. Shed is falling apart and infested with bees. Swing set is splintering and rusted. Vinyl siding on the north side of the house is moldy. Garage is brimming with toys that have either become tripping hazards or homes for small rodents. Hoses need to be detangled. Hulk’s turds need to be hunted and bagged. Weeds are spiky and treacherous on the south side of the house. Their posture, cocky and shameless, indicates they won’t succumb easily.
The chores seem towering and endless. In a moment of profound laziness, I look forward to death.
On the bright side, the asshole who sold me this house, binding me to the creep next door and moving his wife and three girls far far away, rigged his garage with an impressive stereo system. He mounted six speakers throughout the garage and wired them to a stereo shelved in the back of the garage. The outdoor chores will kick my ass, but I’ll get my ass kicked while listening to good tunes. Thank you, Tony Durtato.
The classic rock station comes in crisp and without a trace of static—a wonder and an enigma. As I roll the lawn mower into the yard, the DJ tells me that after commercials, he’s playing an hour of David Bowie. I haven’t listened to David Bowie in years. If I get the mowing done quickly, I’ll get to enjoy the music. I’m already looking forward to it.
I toil, sweat, and troubleshoot for fifteen minutes, but can’t get the mower’s engine to do anything more enduring than cough and gurgle.
Feeling incompetent sucks.
Which is the lesser evil: knocking on Blake’s door or calling Nate?
I sit on the driveway and squint at the sun.
Kids whiz by on their electric scooters, graciously oblivious of me. An old couple walks by with their kind-faced dog on a leash. The man asks me if I need help.
“I’m good, thank you.” I wave.
The woman says something to me, something about the business of mowing lawns, I’m not sure. Another couple is headed my way. They are younger, walking a dog and a child, and will no doubt try to interact with me out of sheer courtesy.
I lie on my back, close my eyes, and make myself invisible.
Gritty cement warms my arms and legs and reminds me of being a kid. No need to get up. Relax. No need to work so hard to try to be normal.
Through my garage speakers, David Bowie sings “Life on Mars?”
“You dead?” A man’s voice startles me. He gently kicks my sneaker.
Alarm running through my veins, my eyes fly open but aren’t adjusted to the sun. A fuzzy figure stands above me. There’s bursting white light where the figure should have a head.
It takes a few seconds for my brain to recognize his voice.
“God?” I say.
James Mahoney laughs. Detective Mahoney.
“I was playing dead. Waiting to see if some kind human would come help me. I wasn’t expecting to be kicked.”
“That wasn’t a kick. It was a nudge. What are you doing?”
My eyes adjust, and his figure comes into focus. He wears worn khakis, a gray T-shirt, and casual dress shoes that have been scratched and faded to such an extent, they now qualify as outdoor work shoes. He’s wearing a baseball cap, like he’s a kid. His light eyes sparkle.
His allure reminds me: I must look disgusting. There is a fine layer of dirt on my sweat-filmed body. Although I can’t smell myself, I don’t think there’s any way I don’t stink. I’m guessing my face is puffy and blotchy.
I sit and lean back on my hands. “My mower doesn’t like me. I figured if I cuddled and cajoled it, I might convince it to give me a second shot.”
“How did that work?”
“It’s been around the block, heard too many lines.”
“You want me to give it a go?” His mischievous tone gives my stomach a twirl.
“You would be my hero.”
He yanks the cord, but can’t get anything going. Muscles strain and shift up his arms. A breeze of his remnant pine-and-soap deodorant blows my way. He tries again. Nothing.
Silence drawing out my insecurities, I say, “The oil and gas aren’t empty.”
He carefully tips the mower on its side and tinkers with it. “You can tip the lawn mower over, but tip it this way. Otherwise, oil will spill where it shouldn’t.”
I open my mouth, but close it. When someone’s trying to troubleshoot, they don’t need a chatterbox. And I’m a little worried I might shout hammer.
He turns it upright, pulls the cord, and it purrs.
“You’re a genius.” Dumbfounded, I stand.
“Your spark plug was loose. It needed to be reseated.”
If he only knew how badly my spark plug needs to be reseated.
“Are your kids inside?”
“With their dad.”
“Your oil is a little low. Let’s fill it.”
“In the shed.” I head around back. He turns off the mower and follows me. My nerves sizzle. Would he attack me? No, he’s a cop. Doesn’t always mean much, I guess, but I do know him. Do you?
“That’s some stereo system,” he says. “I still hear Bowie.”
The DJ plays “Rebel Rebel”.
“Six speakers in the garage, courtesy of the guy who lived here before. Tony Durtato, the roofer.”
When I open the shed door, hot air comes at me like it’s starving for flesh. I step inside and let the door fall free behind me, but it catches on a raised mound of grass, as usual, and keeps itself propped open a quarter of the way. The stink of ammonia and decomposing grass is thick, but doesn’t make me gag like I did when I opened the shed thirty minutes ago.
He follows me into this tight space, which cranks my pulse.
Why did he follow me in? Is he one of those violent cops with a God complex who rapes women and beats teenage boys?
Chill. He came in here to help you. He fixed your lawn mower.
You sure about that? He’s investigating Leland’s murder.
He lets go of the door, but it catches again and remains ajar. A tall, thin slice of light falls into the dark shed. It’s not enough light to read by, but it’s enough for me to locate the oil on the shelf.
“You should put a few motion-sensor lights in here,” he says. “You can get small ones for a few bucks at the hardware store.”
“Good idea.”
I grab a container in each hand. “Here’s the oil and the gas.” Turning toward the door, I bump into him. I didn’t know he was so close. “Sorry.”
He doesn’t move.
Uh oh.
His thumb slides along the bare skin of my inner arm. It’s the most erotic touch I’ve felt inside this decade. Blood rushes to my sweet spots. I am not entirely certain as to what’s going on. I have a good guess, but this scenario, being touched by a man other than my husband, ex-husband, is so foreign to me I can’t be sure.
My muscles are clenched, my nerves are buzzing with anticipation. I stand still, uncertain.
“Can I?” he says.
I’m waiting for him to finish his question, but he doesn’t. My skin is slick and burning for him to do something so I say, “Yes.”
He eases the containers away from my fingers and sets them on the rotting plywood floor. He stands in front of me, his clothes barely brushing mine, his chin in front of my nose. Leaning in, he grazes my bare inner thigh with his fingers.
Inhaling sharply, I nearly orgasm. Only thing stopping me is sheer will.
Something inside me breaks. I have been so completely focused on my children, I had secured and stowed away my desire. Now, like a giant warm water balloon, it bursts insi
de me with heavy liquid warmth.
My tongue quickly finds his mouth and my hands go for the front of his pants. I have never appreciated the male organ as much as I do in this moment. My whole life, it has been there, waiting, vying for attention, desperately yearning for gratitude. I unbutton and unzip his khakis and slide my hand around his warm skin.
“I want this.”
His breath catches. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Right now.”
“You’re sure?” he says again.
“Lay down.”
He does, pushing away a Home Depot bucket full of small shovels and dangerously sharp, rusty metal rods. A plastic snow sled slips toward him and he shoves it back to its teetering location. I step out of my shorts and underwear and grab hold of his dick. I straddle him and rub it back and forth on my skin, approaching orgasm. The cheap sled slips loose again from whatever it was balancing on and hits me in the side of the neck. I throw it to the back of the shed and shove him inside me.
I am gone. One with the universe. My head floats away into space. Deep gratitude for his existence, for his muscles and skin, swells inside me.
Don’t say hammer.
He laughs gently. “Whoa, that was quick. Let me catch up.”
“Make sure you pull out.”
He holds my hips, lifting and pulling me. He works hard for a minute or so before he abruptly stops. He cranes his neck, lifting his head off the floor, a move which appears awkward and painful.
“What is it?” I say.
“Is that buzzing?”
I listen. Humming. Very soft and quiet. Coming from where I threw the sled.
“I think there are bees living in the far corner, but they haven’t bothered me yet.”
“I have an EpiPen in my glove compartment.”
“What? Why? Are you allergic to bees?”
“Deathly.”
“Let’s go inside.” I pull away, but he grabs my hips tightly. His fingernails dig into my skin. “Ow.”
“Sorry.”
“We can finish inside my house.”
She Lies Close Page 19